


Alguien Te Quiere...Y Alguien Soy Yo (Someone Loves You, And That Someone Is Me)

by aguantare



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Niall-centric, OT5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall learns, when he’s five years old, that people, even the ones that mean the most to you, walk away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alguien Te Quiere...Y Alguien Soy Yo (Someone Loves You, And That Someone Is Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strawberryfinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me. 
> 
> For strawberryfinn, for being an awesome beta/proofreader/source of encouragement. This was also her prompt so. :)

Niall learns, when he’s five years old, that people, even the ones that mean the most to you, walk away. 

“But why does Dad have to leave?” he asks, after their parents sit him and Greg down and say things about love and marriage and family that Niall doesn’t really understand, “Is he going to come back?” 

No one answers him, not even Greg, and he’s too young to read the answer in their silence.

He doesn’t remember how long exactly it takes him to realize that their dad isn’t coming back. He just knows that at some point, he stops running home from school because he think maybe today will be the day that his dad will be there for dinner. He stops pestering Greg about it (because Greg just keeps telling him he doesn’t know). And he stops asking his mam about it (because the fourth or fifth time he does, she starts crying, and Greg gets uncharacteristically cross with him and tells him not to do it again).

-

He’s seven years old the first time he comes back from school and their mom just. Isn’t there. There’s a spare key out back in the shed, so he goes and retrieves it, lets himself into the house. Greg comes home an hour or so later, annoyed because he had to walk back from football practice. 

“Where’s Mam?” he asks as soon as Niall lets him inside, “She was supposed to pick me up from practice.” 

“She’s not here,” Niall responds. Greg stops, looks down at him.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Niall answers emphatically, “I’m not stupid, you know. I checked everywhere.”

Greg looks confused for a couple seconds, and then his expression changes. He moves past Niall, heading towards the kitchen. Niall starts to follow. 

“Why don’t you go put on the telly?” Greg suggests, catching sight of him. Niall’s never been one to say no to television, especially after a long day at school, so he readily obeys, padding into the sitting room and turning on the TV. 

At periodic intervals, he hears the clinking of glass and the running of water from the kitchen. A little while later, Greg comes back in, sits down on the sofa next to Niall. He looks upset. 

“What’s wrong?” Niall asks. 

“Nothing,” Greg replies, just this side of harsh. 

“Did you. Should I have helped you?” Niall asks, because his mam has told him that’s a problem of his, not offering to help when he should. 

Greg glances over at him, and he almost looks like he’s going to cry.

“No, Ni. It’s fine. It was just a few…dishes. That I had to clean up. I didn’t need help.”

-

He’s eight years old when he makes what he considers his first best friend. Connor is in his class at school and they used to go to the same church, although Niall and Greg haven’t gone since their dad left. Niall kind of misses Sunday school classes. 

Connor invites him over for dinner one night, and Niall agrees readily because he likes Connor, and he isn’t really looking forward to eating another plastic-packaged microwave meal from Tesco for dinner. Once in awhile, his mom will be home and she’ll make something for the three of them, but most of them time, it’s just him and Greg. 

He goes over to Connor’s after school, and Connor’s mam greets them at the front door. Niall shakes her hand, introduces himself and calls her “ma’am,” the way he’s been taught to, and she smiles at him, asks if he wants a brownie. 

“Fresh from the oven,” she tells him, leading him and Connor into the kitchen. It smells like chocolate and warmth, and Niall’s mouth waters. 

“Her brownies are the best!” Connor declares, making a beeline for the little table in the nook at the other end of the kitchen. He beckons for Niall to join him, and Niall does. The table is clean, no ceramic dishes with smelly, gray and white dust inside, no sour-smelling glass bottles half-full of amber and brown liquids. 

“Niall, what’s your phone number?” Connor’s mam asks as she takes the brownies out of the oven, a blue and white oven mitt on her hand, “I want to call your mam so she knows where you are.”

Niall recites his phone number to her, watches her reach for the phone on the wall. She tucks the phone against her ear and starts cutting up the brownies. 

“Hello? Is this—“ Belatedly, Niall remembers his mam probably isn’t home, so it’s Greg who’s picked up the call back at the house. Connor’s mam looks over at him, a little furrow between her eyebrows. 

“Greg,” she says, and Niall nods, even though he isn’t sure she’s talking to him. She stops cutting the brownies, uses one hand to readjust the phone. 

“Is your mother there?” she asks. Pause. 

“Do you know where she is?” Another pause.

“Oh, okay. Well. When she comes home, will you tell her that Niall is here with Connor? He’s going to have dinner here and then Connor’s dad can bring him home.” 

A longer pause.

“Alright. Thank you, Greg.”

She hangs up the phone, resumes cutting the brownies. Connor and Niall are engaged in an intense thumb-war battle, and Connor is winning 3-1 when his mom sets two plates down in front of them with a brownie square on each. 

“Aww, they’re so small,” Connor exclaims, looking disappointed.

“We’re eating dinner soon,” his mom explains. She stands at the side of the table, watching them dig in.

“Niall, is your mam usually gone when you go home from school?” she asks. Niall nods, swallows a mouthful of brownie before responding.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who usually makes dinner for you?” she asks. 

“Greg,” Niall answers, “He usually just makes something in the microwave, like from Tesco.”

Connor’s mam nods, smiles a little at him.

“How old is Greg?” she asks.

“Thirteen.”

She nods again.

-

Niall gets invited over to Connor’s for dinner more often after that. Greg reminds him to be gracious, to thank Connor’s parents every time, and Niall does. He likes having dinner at Connor’s; his parents are funny and nice, his mam always asks if Niall wants seconds and even thirds sometimes, and his dad asks him about school and which subjects he likes, and sometimes they let Connor and him play video games on the TV in the living room after they eat. 

It makes Niall realize that maybe not everyone’s family is like his, not everyone’s dad leaves and doesn’t come back, not everyone’s mam stays out until ten, eleven, twelve at night.

-

The next year, Connor’s dad gets a job in America. They move away. Niall never sees them again.

-

He’s ten when they go to live with their dad. Their mam cries, begs them to stay, and Niall almost caves, but Greg wraps a firm arm around his shoulders. 

“We can’t stay here, Mam,” he says, and his voice sounds strained, “It’s not good for me or Niall. You need.”

He stops, and their mam stares at him, betrayal creeping into her expression. 

“I need to what?” she asks, dangerously quiet. Greg’s arm tightens almost imperceptibly around Niall’s shoulders. 

“You need to get yourself cleaned up,” he says. 

She slaps him, hard across the face, and then she’s turning a vicious glare in Niall’s direction, but Greg turns him away from her, so he’s in between them, shielding Niall.

“Traitors,” she hisses, “Both of you. Just like your father.”

It’s the only time Niall ever sees Greg cry.

-

Living with their dad is okay, for awhile. The house doesn’t constantly smell like liquor and cigarettes, and their dad fixes dinner for them at night and helps them with their homework, and it’s okay. For awhile. 

Niall is thirteen when he’s jolted awake in the dead of night by an explosion of yelling downstairs. Disoriented, he rolls out of bed and shuffles to his closed door, tries to tune in to the raised voices. 

“…as if you give a fuck!” Greg sounds angry, upset (and years later, Niall will realize he sounds sad, _devastated_ too, but he’s not old enough then to recognize it).

“Don’t you talk to me like that!”

“Why? Because you’re my father?”

“You’re damn right.”

“Yeah, right, father of the year, you. Walking out on us and then waiting for Mam to self-destruct before swooping back in to save the day.”

Heavy, rapid footsteps on the stairs, then down the hall. A slamming of a bedroom door that Niall guesses by the direction of the noise is Greg’s. 

A pause, and then the sound of breaking glass downstairs. 

Niall carefully, soundlessly creeps back to bed. 

Three days later, Niall is up late watching a movie when Greg stumbles into the house at half past midnight, reeking of alcohol and weed. His eyes are red-rimmed and bleary, and his skin looks pale, clammy. Niall knows enough to know that weed and liquor alone don’t make someone look like that. 

“Where were you?” Niall asks, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Out,” Greg replies shortly, fumbling with the lock on the door. 

“Doing what?” Niall asks.

“None of your bloody business,” Greg replies sharply. Niall sighs. He’s old enough to know, now, that Greg has had to grow up way too fast, has spent a lot of time trying to take care of the family, take care of Niall, and not enough time taking care of himself.

“I won’t tell Dad,” he says, “Just, don’t do it again, yeah?”

Greg sways a little in place as he eyes Niall. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says eventually.

-

It’s not okay. Greg keeps going out, keeps coming back drunk and high and strung out on God only knows what. His grades are suffering, he gets kicked off the football team, and when he’s actually home, he’s constantly at war with their dad. 

Niall tells their dad about the drugs. He has a sneaking suspicion their dad already knows, but he’s just. Worried. About Greg. About where he’s heading. He wants his brother back, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

There’s a confrontation. The worst yet. Niall is in the kitchen when it blows up, and he feels trapped, because there’s no way for him to escape up to his room without walking right into the firing line. The yelling is loud, and the insults are sharp, barbed, _personal_ in a way he hasn’t ever heard before. 

And then Greg is bursting into the kitchen, gets a hand fisted in Niall’s collar, shoving him up against the counter.

“You little shit!” he’s shouting, eyes ablaze, “You. Little. Shit. Why the fuck did you have to stick your nose in where it didn’t belong?”

Their dad is on Greg in a flash, prying him off, but Greg is still glaring at Niall like he doesn’t even know him, and Niall is suddenly angry, angry that Greg doesn’t even see what he’s doing to himself, what he’s doing to them. 

“You were the one who told Mam she needed to get cleaned up!” he yells. His eyes fill, of their own accord, and he swipes angrily at them. “And now look at _you_!” 

Greg swells, like he’s going to explode, and rushes at Niall again, but their dad intercepts him. 

“You don’t know shit!” Greg accuses, “You don’t know shit about what I’ve had to deal with! I’m done with you. I’m done!”

He leaves. He doesn’t come back for a week. 

-

When he finally does come back, it’s only to pack up his things and move out. Niall comes home from school one day and there’s a duffel bag by the door. Greg comes thumping down the stairs with a second bag slung over his shoulder and a paper slip in his hand that looks a lot like a bus ticket. He stops when he sees Niall, and Niall is wary; his back still aches a little from when Greg pushed him into the counter. 

“You’re home early,” Greg says, descending the last few steps a little more slowly. 

“No chorus practice,” Niall replies. He hesitates. “Where are you going?”

Greg lets out a sharp breath, clutches the paper in his hand a little tighter. 

“Dad and I…we aren’t ever going to see eye to eye,” he says. 

“About what?” Niall asks before he can stop himself, “About doing drugs?”

Greg’s expression hardens a little. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” he states flatly. 

“So you’re just gonna leave?” Niall presses. 

“Yes!” Greg retorts, just this side of angry, and Niall shrinks back. Greg snaps his mouth shut, looks away. 

“Shit happens, Niall,” he says eventually, looking back. His eyes are brighter than usual. He moves toward the door, picks up the second duffel bag. Fumbles with his keys. 

Niall is moving before he can really think about it, reaching out to grab Greg’s arm, because in his fourteen year old brain, it makes sense, it’s a logical action, to try and physically stop Greg from leaving. 

There’s a blur of movement, and then Niall’s on the ground, pain spidering through the side of his face. He looks up, one hand pressed hard against his cheek, and Greg is staring down at him, eyes wide. 

“Jesus, Niall,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

And then he’s gone.

-

For two years, Niall holds out hope that somehow, some way, Greg will come around, will recognize that Niall was just trying to do right by him, that he just didn’t want to lose the one person who has always been there for him. He sees Greg a couple times around town, and then he doesn’t see him at all, and it’s only through mutual acquaintances that he hears that Greg’s just. Gone. Left town. Maybe to London, maybe somewhere else, no one knows for sure. 

By the time he’s 16, his dad and he don’t talk anymore outside of necessities—“pass the salt” at dinner, and “see you later” when they’re going to work and school, respectively in the mornings. His dad is all about cold hard math and crunching numbers and having a beer at the pub on Friday nights after work and watching football on the weekends. He doesn’t understand Niall’s fascination with black and white notes on loose sheafs of crooked, self-drawn music staffs, doesn’t understand why Niall can harmonize his voice with just about any song on the radio, but can’t integrate fractions to save his life.

So his dad goes out to the pub, and at first it’s just Fridays and Saturdays, but soon it’s Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays too, and Niall is old enough to know that he’s watching his father drink himself into an early grave, and maybe it’s partly Niall’s fault, maybe he just isn’t strong enough, maybe he hasn’t been a good enough son or brother, maybe he just hasn’t been good enough, full stop, and maybe that’s why people leave him. 

He tries out for X-Factor because he knows he’s going to be on his own soon, and music’s the only thing he’s even halfway decent at and who knows, maybe someone will notice him. 

-

He gets through. Not as a solo artist, but with four other boys. 

His dad calls, that night.

“Congratulations, Niall,” he says, and he sounds genuine, but stilted, like he’s not sure if they’re the right words, if he should be saying them at all. 

“Thanks, Dad.”

Silence. 

_Say something_ , Niall thinks desperately, _Tell me you’re proud of me. Tell me I did a good job._

His dad sighs.

“I should go. Early day at work tomorrow.”

Niall closes his eyes. 

“Good luck, Niall,” his dad says.

 _Goodbye_ is what Niall hears.

-

They have one of those conversations at the bungalow, where they talk about all the really personal stuff in their lives. It’s not like they plan it, it’s just one of those organic things that happens when they’re all kind of sleepy and warm and comfortable, curled up in blankets and quilts around the fire pit, and there’s this kind of undercurrent running between them, this sense that maybe this is something special, maybe they’re more than just five kids who got tossed together for fifteen minutes of fame. 

“My parents got divorced when I was really young,” Harry says, “And then my mom remarried. That was kind of weird I guess. I mean, I like my stepdad but like. It took me some time to adjust.”

“My dad and I. We talk sometimes but it’s not really like the most important relationship to me. Does that sound really terrible?” he asks, looking up at the rest of them, and there’s a grace note of hurt underlying his tone that Niall knows, knows all too well. 

“I talk to my dad like once a year,” Louis offers in response, tucking his feet up under him on the sofa behind Niall, “He left my mum. Simple as that. I owe my mum like, everything. I don’t owe him anything.”

“I guess I’m lucky my parents are still together,” Zayn says after a few moments, “I think my dad’s family kind of wanted him to marry a nice Pakistani girl.”

“Do they want you to do so as well?” Liam asks from the other chair. Zayn snorts a little.

“Probably. They might end up being disappointed though.”

Pause.

“I used to get pushed around at school a lot,” Liam says eventually, looking into the fire. 

“Pushed around?” Zayn asks. 

“Yeah like. You know, like after school, they’d like, catch me on the way home.”

“Catch you?” Harry repeats quietly. Liam shrugs a little, tucks his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. 

“I started learning how to box when I was 12,” he says, and that. That basically answers Harry’s question without answering it. 

“Wish I’d learned how to box,” Zayn pipes up, “Might have saved me a few dust-ups in school.”

“Always would have figured you for one of the popular ones,” Louis observes, not unkindly, and Zayn smiles a little. 

“Ah, unfortunately not. I think being the resident Paki kind of shut me out of that opportunity.”

Niall doesn’t volunteer any information, and they don’t prod him for it. In a way, it almost makes him want to speak up, because it doesn’t feel like they’re holding off because they don’t care. It’s more like. More like they’re holding off because they _do_ care, and they understand that everyone opens up, exposes themselves, makes themselves vulnerable at their own pace. 

_Maybe tomorrow_ , he thinks, staring into the fire until his eyes water and he has to look away. 

-

Niall knows how to be funny, knows how to draw non-critical attention, knows how to diffuse or deflect loaded questions with a witty, throwaway answer. 

“How do your friends and family react to all this fame?” the interviewer asks. They’re in Liverpool, a couple days after What Makes You Beautiful hits number one, and Louis and Harry are having a wonderful time imitating the Scouse accent. Louis is especially good at it. 

“Niall?” the interviewer asks, because Niall’s been quiet at this particular appearance, and he knows it’s their job to draw them out, get something out of them worth broadcasting. 

“Well I think it’s probably just a really good excuse for them to have a drink, you know,” he responds after a moment of thought, “You know, like every time they see me on the telly, they get to take a shot or something.”

“Niall!” Louis exclaims, sounding affronted, “That’s terrible, that. Stereotyping your own countrymen.”

Niall gives him his best grin and Louis slaps him lightly on the cheek. 

The interview moves on to other topics. Niall sits back in his seat. 

Wonders, for a moment, what the other boys would say if he told them that there’s no one back home watching him, no one back home rooting for him, because there’s no one who has ever stayed for him.

-

The hell of it is, Niall doesn’t even realize it’s happening. For all his self-awareness and his constant reminders to himself to maintain a safe distance throughout X-Factor, the boys get under his skin, burrowing in close and seeping into his being until he wakes up abruptly one morning in New York, midway through their first American tour, and realizes how normal the sound of Harry banging around in the shared hotel kitchen is, how familiar the sound of Liam doodling the air with random bits of song is, how _right_ the sound of Louis threatening to go in and draw moustaches on Zayn and Niall’s faces is. 

And he wants to accept it, he to just wrap himself up and lose himself in how easy it is to just roll out of bed and wander into the kitchen in nothing but his boxers and hip check Liam in greeting and dodge Louis’ cheeky ass-grab.

But even as he steals a piece of fruit from one of the breakfast plates that Harry is carefully preparing and skitters away, giggling at Harry’s squawk of indignation, there’s this voice in the back of his mind wondering when he’s going to do something wrong, when they’re going to decide they don’t want him around anymore, when they’re going to leave him. 

-

Harry loans him a jumper while they’re in Los Angeles. Niall can’t actually believe that he’s cold in Los Angeles of all places, but when the sun goes down it’s like all the heat gets sucked out of the air. They’re out and about in Santa Monica, and Harry doesn’t even say anything about it, just tugs the jumper off and hands it to Niall without even breaking stride or interrupting the mock-angry retort he’s sending in Louis’ direction about the blazer he’s wearing. 

Niall shrugs the jumper onto his own shoulders and sticks his arms through the sleeves. They’re a little too long, and the whole thing is kind of baggy and sloppy on him, but the inside is still warm, residual left over from Harry’s body heat, and Niall curls his hands gratefully inside the sleeve cuffs. 

Later, when they stop into a café to get something to eat, Niall offers the jumper back, because Harry’s been walking around in short sleeves and Niall can see the goose bumps on his arms. 

“Keep it,” Harry says, waving him away. 

“You’re going to get cold,” Niall points out.

“Serves him right,” Louis chimes in, wrapping a friendly arm around Harry’s neck, “Got to keep all that hotness contained somehow, right?”

Harry rolls his eyes and tries to pinch Louis’ cheek and Louis hops away, goes and seeks refuge behind Zayn. 

They get back to the hotel late and Paul actually checks that they’re in their rooms, like little kids away at summer camp, reminds them that they have to be up early for interviews and promos. Niall has the single this time, and he falls face first down into the queen-sized bed that he has all to himself, is halfway asleep before he realizes he’s still wearing his jeans, and his shoes. And Harry’s jumper. 

_Fuck it_ , he think to himself. He’ll give it back tomorrow.

-

Of course he gets up late the next day and he barely has time to grab breakfast and throw on the clothes their stylist has picked out for him before they’re being hustled off to their first interview. 

It’s their third or fourth appearance, he’s not quite sure which one, when the presenters ask them to go through some Twitter questions beforehand and pick out a few that they’d like to answer. They hand them a couple iPads and it’s all very slick and high-tech and of course they get sidetracked and distracted.

Niall’s sharing one screen with Zayn, and Zayn manages to pick out about five questions before he starts wandering off into other feeds than the ones they’re supposed to be looking at. He opens up a couple that are obviously fans, complete with the silly names like “mrsmalik” and “zaynsbiggestfan.”

“Looking for future prospects?” Niall teases. 

“Just wondering what type of fanbase I’m attracting,” Zayn replies easily, tapping on the link for another feed. He starts scrolling through it, then stops abruptly. For a second Niall is confused. Then he focuses in on a Tweet in the middle of the screen and.

Oh.

As quickly as Zayn opened the feed up, he closes out of it, sets the iPad down on the table and signals the presenters that he’s done. He glances over at Niall then, and Niall tries for a smile, but judging by the furrow in Zayn’s brow, it’s not a very convincing attempt. 

During the interview, one of the presenters asks what some of the more difficult aspects of their job are. Zayn jumps on it, doesn’t even hesitate. 

“It’s unfortunate that like, some people want to have a go at one person in particular out of the five of us,” he says, and his tone is reasonable, but there’s an edge to it that Niall wonders if anyone other than the other four of them can pick up on, “Like, if you don’t like our music, fine, but it’s frustrating when people pick out one person and say he can’t sing, or they say he’s useless or whatever. Because nothing could be further from the truth, for us, and I just think it’s really unfortunate.” 

It makes the knot in Niall’s stomach ease a little, Zayn’s implicit defense of him, and in the car on the way to the next interview, he sits next to Zayn, nudges their knees together in a silent thank you.

But the words are still there, emblazoned into his memory in stark black and white.

_1d should drop niall he’s dead weight on an otherwise vocally talented group_

-

Later, back at the hotel after their last interview but before their sound check, Niall retreats to his room pleading fatigue. Zayn gives him a Look and follows him, and Niall supposes it would be ungrateful to tell him to go away, so he lets him. When he gets to his room, he leaves the door open and goes out to the balcony. Just because Zayn is here, doesn’t mean Niall has to talk to him.

Zayn, in his typically tactful, mature way, lets Niall stew for a few minutes on his own before joining him out on the balcony. He lights a cigarette, sets his lighter on the little table between them, and puffs a gray-blue cloud of smoke out into the warm air, watches it dissipate. 

“Most people,” he says after a second or two, “They wouldn’t know vocal talent if it slapped them in the face.”

Niall shrugs, sets his forearms on the balcony railing and looks out over the city, spread out in an endless grid below them.

“We need you,” Zayn says, glancing over at him, “No matter what anyone else says, we need you.” 

Niall nods a little, and it’s comforting to hear, from Zayn no less, who typically holds his emotions close. 

But part of him knows that need isn’t indefinite, that you can stop needing someone. 

Zayn sighs, stubs out his half-finished cigarette on the hotel rail. 

“Don’t let them tell you who you are, Niall,” he says, “People like that, they don’t deserve your attention, even for a second.”

He leaves then, because he’s not one to stick around once he’s said his piece, he gives people their space to let them figure things out on their own. 

Niall looks down at Zayn’s lighter, which he’s left on the table. The design on it is a constellation of marbled red and brown, understated in its uniqueness. 

_Don’t let them tell you who you are._

Niall picks up the lighter, tucks it into his pocket. 

_But what if they’re right?_

-

It becomes a thing after that, taking various articles from the boys that they leave or give to him, sequestering them away as tokens, reminders of the times when he was enough, when he felt wanted. There’s Harry’s jumper, and Zayn’s lighter, and the beanie Louis put on his head after a not so great performance in Charlotte, and the scarf that Liam looped around his neck to tug him in for a hug on stage at the performance after that. They borrow each other’s clothes all the time on tour, and things are constantly getting mixed up and stuffed into the wrong bags and they say they’ll sort it out at the next stop and then they never do, so no one really misses stuff when it can’t be found, figures it’ll turn up eventually. 

Sometimes, after a particularly bad day, Niall will dig through his bags, find the jumper Harry loaned him or the beanie Louis tugged over his ears, press his fingers against the fabric and think to himself that at least he’ll have something to hang on to, after they leave. Sometimes he’ll take Zayn’s lighter out to the balcony or the pool deck, flicker the flame in front of his face and think about how because of Zayn, he doesn’t hate the smell of cigarette smoke anymore. And sometimes if it’s particularly cool in the hotel room and he has it all to himself, he’ll tug Liam’s scarf around his neck, tuck his nose into the woven strands and wonder how long it’ll be before they lose the faint tinge of Liam’s aftershave.

He didn’t want to get attached. He didn’t _mean_ to. But now he is. If Zayn was telling the truth, and they need him, then he needs them just as much, if not more. He stands up on stage with them and he feels like he’s worth something, he feels like he _means_ something to them, to the fans, to himself. 

Sometimes, he think maybe he could tell them all this. Harry and Louis both went through divorces. Liam and Zayn put up with a lot of shit at school. He thinks maybe they would understand.

But then he thinks maybe they’d just look at him like he’s weak, like he can’t deal with his emotions, like he can’t just move on and get over it, and then maybe he’d just be hastening that day when they finally decide he’s not worth it and just move on without him.

-

“Who spends the most time getting ready in the morning?” 

“Zayn!” Louis, Harry and Liam exclaim in unison, and Zayn squawks in protest. 

“That’s not a fair comparison!” he exclaims in response. 

“Louis spent quite a long time in the shower this morning,” Niall deadpans with a conspiratorial grin in Zayn’s direction. 

“Allies, these two,” Louis says, feigning exasperation, “Thick as thieves.”

“Is Niall your favorite?” the interviewer asks Zayn. Zayn smiles, glances over at Niall again. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he offers. Niall hears Liam and Louis gasping in mock offense under their breath. 

“Why’s that?” the interviewer’s asking. 

“He’s just really carefree, you know?” Zayn responds, “He’s really easy-going and really grounded and he just knows how to take everything in stride which is like, incredibly important in our line of work.”

“I read in another interview that you all are really protective of Niall. Is that true?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Liam pipes up, “I think just because Niall’s so carefree and sees the bright side of everything, we don’t want other people to like, take advantage of that.”

-

Niall keeps taking things. It’s not a compulsion, exactly. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

-

“Does someone have my hat?”

It’s a few days before they’re set to embark on their second tour, and packing for it inevitably means they’re back and forth between each other’s places, retrieving clothing and shoes and weird, random things like that little stuffed frog that a 7-year-old fan gave Harry in Sydney. 

And inevitably, when they’re over at each other’s places, they end up playing video games and ordering pizza and goofing around and sort of tossing things in their suitcases in between. 

“Which one?”

From his vantage point sprawled out on Louis’ sofa, Niall watches Liam rub a hand over his head and cast a frowning, puzzled look over the room, like maybe his hat is lying somewhere in plain sight. 

“The black and white one,” Liam says, “The snapback.”

“I haven’t seen that one in ages,” Louis supplies, “Bet you some fan grabbed it off your head and it’s now the centerpiece of a Liam Payne shrine somewhere.”

“Nice, Louis,” Liam chides, rolling his eyes, “Are you sure none of you have it?”

“Sorry, mate,” Louis says, “Harry pretty much emptied my closets looking for one of his jumpers, so I know I don’t have it.”

Liam raises an expectant eyebrow in Niall’s direction, and Niall just offers what he hopes is an appropriately apologetic smile.

“Sorry, Li,” he says, “Haven’t seen it in awhile.”

It’s not technically a lie. The last time he actually saw that particular hat, he was tucking it into the bottom of one of his suitcases after a long day out on a boat off the coast of Sydney. Liam had found Niall lounging out on the deck, tossed the snapback onto his chest and told him to put it on or else he was going to get sunburned. 

That was, what, six months ago? More? 

It’s not technically a lie. 

-

He and Zayn room together while they’re in Dublin and Belfast, and at one point, Zayn goes out on the balcony for a smoke, only to come back in a few seconds later. 

“How do I keep losing my lighters?” he grumbles, half to himself, “I swear to god, sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.” 

He heads for the door, no doubt off to find Paul and get a light off him or one of the other security guys.

Niall feels a pang of guilt. Thinks about the three lighters slipped into the inside pocket of one of his handbags. Three times Zayn came and found him after a bad review, or a bad performance, sat with him and smoked a cigarette and rebuilt the crumbling façade of his self-esteem.

He wonders if—when—this whole thing is going to blow up in his face. 

-

The first time he tries to sneak something back, he almost gets caught. They’re in Liverpool, and Harry and Liam and Louis all went out to get something to eat, so Niall slips into Harry and Louis’ room, Louis’ beanie that he gave him back in Charlotte in his hand. He’s literally just tucked the beanie into one of Louis’ bags when the door opens and Harry and Louis tumble in, bags of food in their hands. It says a lot about them and their friendship that neither of them look even the least bit surprised to find Niall in their room. 

“Need clothes?” Harry asks knowingly. 

“Nah, I bet Zayn sent you, didn’t he?” Louis chimes in, “Didn’t want to be caught in here nicking our stuff _again_.”

“Yeah, I was looking for a t-shirt or something, but I forgot you both have rotten taste in t-shirts,” Niall responds, and he’s glad his voice comes out steady; his heart is racing.

“Look who’s talking!” Harry retorts delightedly, “Pot, kettle and all that.”

“I have _amazing_ taste in t-shirts, thanks,” Niall declares. 

“Yeah, amazingly bad,” Louis corrects. Niall very maturely sticks his tongue out at him and skitters out of the room. 

A few days later, he sees Louis wearing the beanie while they’re out and about in Nottingham and okay, maybe Niall can do this, maybe he can fix this before anyone else finds out. 

-

A couple days later, back in Liverpool, he slips one of the lighters, a bright yellow one, into the pocket of a pair of Zayn’s jeans that’s draped over the back of a chair in their hotel room. 

When he sees Zayn ducking out for a smoke before the show that evening, he sees the telltale flash of yellow in Zayn’s hand. 

Tries not to think about how that’s one less thing he’ll be able to hang on to, one less memory he’ll have a physical, tangible reminder of. 

Because they’re going to leave him. He knows it. He _knows_ it. The only certainty he’s ever had in his life is that everyone leaves, eventually.

-

They’re back in London, and that’s when everything comes crashing down. They all get a chance to go back to their places, and it’s weird how there are times that, when they’re on tour and constantly in each other’s space, they sometimes want to be alone, want to get away, but when they’re away from each other, it’s like they can’t help but gravitate back towards each other. Niall’s barely been home for two hours when someone’s knocking at his door. He places mental bets on who it’s going to be as he walks through his flat toward the front door, and internally congratulates himself when he sees that he was right. 

“Hi, Louis.”

“Do you have any food here?” Louis asks, padding into Niall’s living room and flopping down on the couch, “My fridge is completely empty.”

“You didn’t commission El to put a few things in there for when we got back?” Niall asks, heading for the kitchen to check his own provisions. 

“Nah, she’s with her parents and I didn’t want to like, make her go out of her way or whatever.” 

Niall opens up his fridge and surveys the shelves. A half-empty bottle of Ketchup that he should probably throw out. A couple bottles of Gatorade. 

“I’m stealing a jumper,” Louis calls out, already halfway down the hall towards Niall’s bedroom, “I’m cold.”

“Okay,” Niall calls back on auto-pilot. 

It takes him two full seconds to realize his mistake. 

He’s _flying_ down the hallway, the bottles in the fridge rattling on the racks in his wake. The door to his room is open, and even as he hopes against hope that maybe Louis just dug through his dresser, didn’t go for his closet, he can feel that the sudden silence in the flat is thick and heavy and foreboding. 

He rounds the doorframe and comes to a skidding halt halfway into his room that might be comical, if it wasn’t for the fact that Louis is standing in front of his closet, looking down into a dark blue duffel bag that Niall knows the contents of all too well. Liam’s snapback that he was looking for awhile ago. The UCLA jumper that Harry was tearing Louis’ flat apart looking for before they left. Other things. Things that the boys have been actively looking for. Things that he hasn’t had a chance to slip back into place. 

When he hears Niall’s footsteps, Louis looks up, and Niall’s chest constricts because his eyes are sharp and suspicious and _angry_.

“Louis, I can—I can expl—“

“What the hell is this?” Louis interrupts him, holding out the bag. 

“Louis, it’s. It’s not, it’s not what it—“

“What it looks like?” Louis’ words lash across Niall like a verbal cat o’ nine tails and he flinches, heat rising in his eyes because he’s fucked up, he’s fucked up and now they’re going to leave him because he fucked up. 

“You’ve been stealing our stuff,” Louis accuses harshly, “I don’t know what the hell it could possibly look like other than that.”

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Niall protests. His hands are starting to shake because Louis can be snarky and grumpy, but Niall’s never heard him sound like this before. 

“Then how do you explain this?” Louis retorts, just this side of a shout, taking a couple steps toward Niall and holding the bag up. 

And Niall—Niall has a split second memory of Greg lunging across the kitchen at him, grabbing him by the shirt, pinning him up against the wall and then he blinks and he’s looking into Louis’ eyes and there’s the same anger, the same betrayal there. 

He hasn’t thought about that day in years, but now it’s like someone’s just flipped a switch inside him, pulled a cord to release the floodgates.

“Just—I’ll give it back, okay?” Niall says shakily, reaching for the bag, trying to shut out the memories simmering just below the surface. Louis jolts away, his movement sharp and sudden, and Niall flinches hard, an even more vivid recollection of Greg’s fist landing across his face flashing through his mind’s eye.

He sees Louis freeze in front of him, expression going from angry—furious—to confused. 

“Niall.”

Niall shakes his head a little, backs away, because it’s all coming crashing down around him, just like he knew it would, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. He watched Greg walk out the door and leave him behind. If his own brother, his _only_ brother can walk away from him and not look back, then there’s nothing, absolutely nothing stopping these boys, no matter how much he adores them, from walking away from him too. 

The backs of his legs hit the edge of his bed, and he folds down onto it, vision blurry, his mind a cacophony of memories and recollections and all the times he went wrong and why couldn’t he have just been _better_ and—

“Niall.” 

Louis is crouching down in front of him, one hand moving tentatively towards a resting place on Niall’s knee. Niall jerks away, doesn’t really register that the sharpness in Louis’ eyes is gone, replaced by something much softer. 

“You should. You should go,” Niall says hollowly, looking past Louis’ face to a spot on the wall above his shoulder. 

“No. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Niall shake his head because. No. He can’t. He’s not enough, he’s _never_ been enough and he doesn’t know how to explain that he was just trying to hold on to those times when they made him feel like maybe he could be, even if in the end it wasn’t ever going to be true.

“Niall.”

Niall shakes his head again. Louis makes a noise that Niall isn’t really aware enough to read—he hears frustration maybe, or impatience, and he doesn’t look up so he can’t see the answer clearly written in Louis’ pained expression. 

Louis leaves. 

-

Niall curls up on the bare mattress—he stripped off the sheets before he left—and closes his eyes. 

Wonders, as he drifts off, what he’s going to do, now that he’s on his own again.

-

He wakes up, and he’s alone, but he’s not. There’s a low murmur of voices filtering into his bedroom, and when he sits up, he recognizes the clearest one as Liam’s. 

“…never talks about his family, you know? Or he just mentions it in passing and like, that’s it.”

A quiet response, too soft for Niall to hear. 

“I feel like shit.” That’s Louis, and Niall doesn’t really understand. Why is he still here? 

“You should.” And that’s Zayn, sounding very much like he’s not joking. “Sorry, Tommo, but Jesus Christ.”

“I know. I know.”

More conversation that Niall can’t make out. 

“Maybe we should wake him up.” Harry’s here too? Niall really doesn’t understand now. 

“And make him deal with all four of us at once?” Zayn asks, “You and Louis are just full of bright ideas today, aren’t you?”

“Chill out, Zayn,” Liam cuts in, “We’re all worried. Don’t take it out on the rest of us.”

More quiet conversation. Niall lies back down. Closes his eyes. 

-

He doesn’t know how much time passes before there’s a knock on his bedroom door. He doesn’t answer, but a few moments later, the door eases open and soft footsteps pad into the room. 

“Niall?” a voice asks, and it’s Harry. Niall’s on his stomach, face buried in his arms, and he lifts his head a little. All he can see in his field of vision is the wall and a corner of the bedside table.

“You can take your stuff back,” he says, “It’s in that bag over there by the closet.”

Short pause. 

Then the mattress is shifting under the weight of a new body, and Niall feels Harry set his head in the small of his back, comfortable and careful. It’s unlike any other goodbye Niall’s ever been through. 

For awhile, Harry just lays there with him. His breathing is deep and even, and there’s no tension in him, nothing to suggest that he’s angry or disappointed, and Niall is going to miss this. 

Finally, Harry shifts, takes a deep breath. Niall steels himself.

“Remember when you let me cry on your shoulder, after we lost X-Factor?” Harry asks quietly. 

Of course Niall remembers. He thinks maybe that was one of the first times when he reached out voluntarily for one of the other boys and set himself on this path that could only ever end one way. 

“Yeah. I remember.”

Harry sighs. 

“I wish.” He pauses. “I wish you’d let me do the same thing for you now.”

Niall’s chest and stomach and insides do this weird, twisting thing that’s not quite painful, but isn’t quite pleasant either. 

“I don’t need a cry,” he says, mostly into the crook of his own arm. 

“Yeah but.” Harry shifts again, and Niall feels the tips of his fingers come to rest just at the point where his upper arm makes contact with the mattress. “Crying for me is like. Letting out whatever’s bothering me. And like, I feel better if someone lets me cry on their shoulder than if I have to cry all alone.”

It takes a couple seconds for that to sink in, and then Niall kind of realizes what Harry’s saying, and it makes his insides go twisty and weird again because no one’s ever asked before, no one’s ever wanted to know. 

_I’m scared_ , he thinks. 

“Of what?” Harry asks, and Niall realizes he’s spoken out loud. He presses his face into his forearms. He thinks he can say it, he thinks he can, because Harry is there and warm and solid against him and he knows Niall took his things and he still hasn’t left.

But once Niall tells him, once he lets it all out, he won’t be able to take it back, and then where will he be?

He closes his eyes. 

“I’m scared that you’ll leave me.” 

Long pause. 

“Why would we leave you, Niall?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t sound angry or disbelieving or taken aback. Just. Calm. Steady. Niall turns his head so he’s facing the side that Harry’s lying on, although the only part of Harry that he can see are his long legs dangling off the edge of the bed. 

“Because that’s what everyone else does,” he replies, barely above a whisper. 

Harry doesn’t react immediately, and Niall almost wonders if he didn’t hear his response. 

And then Harry is slipping his fingers all the way under Niall’s arm, stroking his thumb over his skin. 

“What can we do to convince you that we aren’t everyone else?” 

-

They all stay the night, at Niall’s flat. They slip in one by one—Liam brings him food, Zayn brings him a cup of tea and sheets for his bed, and Louis brings him a bone-crushing hug and an apology whispered into the crook of his neck. 

Niall sleeps alone in his own bed, but for the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t *feel* alone.

-

They go to Newcastle, and when they go out and do their show, nothing’s actually _changed_ in the sense that they’re still all over each other and being ridiculous and dumb and changing lyrics and dodging things that the fans throw onto the stage. 

But it’s still different. Niall’s standing next to Zayn while they’re answering Twitter questions, and when Zayn slings an arm around his neck, it’s not just “hey buddy, how’s it going,” it’s “hey buddy, how’s it going, I’m right here, I’ve got you.” And when Louis leaps on his back during a break between songs and dares him to hit Liam in the balls the next time he wanders by, it’s not just a stupid for-show antic, it’s “you’re one of my best friends so let’s conspire together because that’s what best friends do.”

Niall realizes that maybe, maybe that’s what it was, what it has been all along, and he just never knew how to recognize it. 

-

It’s a slow process, but he tells them everything. From Manchester to northern and central Europe, curled up with Louis and Harry in his bunk on the bus or stretched out watching TV with Liam or hanging out on the balcony with Zayn while he has a smoke, he pulls the curtain back, little by little, show the boys more and more. And he know they talk amongst themselves, and sometimes he wonders what they’re saying about him and then Harry will come in to his hotel room and sprawl across his legs and tell him matter of factly that he and Louis were just wondering whether Niall had ever heard from his parents since he left home. Or Zayn will join him in the back lounge of the tour bus and kicks Niall’s ass at Mario Kart while he tells him that he and Liam were talking about how hard it must have been to watch Greg walk away.

And before they leave, they always touch him. A hand on his ankle or his back, or a full-bodied hug in Harry’s case, and sometimes, when Louis is in a particularly affectionate mood, a sloppy kiss on the cheek. 

-

Sometimes, he still has that flash of fear, that bolt of insecurity, and sometimes it keeps him awake at night. And mornings after, he pads into the shared kitchen or the main area of the tour bus, and the boys will take one look at his red eyes and the bags under them and Zayn will pipe up,

“Hey, remember that time Harry got absolutely smashed while we were in Los Angeles and forgot his wallet at the club?”

And Harry will protest loudly, and Liam will respond,

“Oh yeah, and Niall went back and was like, no worries, got it under control, and got it back in like record time.”

And Louis will add,

“Yeah, Harry, you would have been up a creek without our Niall.”

And Harry will pout, even as he kicks at Niall’s ankle and admits,

“What else is new?”

-

“So, would any of you ever consider a solo career? Boy bands typically don’t have a very long shelf life.”

Liam fields the interviewer’s question, because they've all kind of agreed that he’s the one who can answer it most eloquently.

“I don’t think so,” he responds, in that unequivocal tone that says “no” without actually saying it, “Going off on solo careers would mean leaving each other and leaving One Direction and, you know, that’s just not who we are.”

“Everyone else, though…all those other bands, like NSync and Backstreet Boys…every one of them broke up, with some of their members going on to solo careers.”

Short pause. Niall feels knuckles pressing lightly into his shoulder blade, behind his back, hidden from view, meant for him alone.

And then Harry’s speaking up.

“Well we’re not everyone else.”

*~*FIN*~*


End file.
